


It's Better Than Words

by habitbynight



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Harry has a shit dad, M/M, Photographer! Harry, Recovery, Rich! Zayn, University AU, Wealth, rich! Liam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/habitbynight/pseuds/habitbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry tries to kill himself. His friends are there to support him through it, and help him out. Recovering takes a long time, but it might be possible...with photography, partying, a lot of sappy shit, and a too-forward boy putting shy Harry back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. O, Never to be Weak Again.

_ It is the sun that shares our works. _

_ The moon shares nothing. It is a sea. _

_ When shall I come to say of the sun, _

_ It is a sea; it shares nothing; _

_ The sun no longer shares our works  _

_ And the earth is alive with creeping men, _

_ Mechanical beetles never quite warm? _

_ And shall I then stand in the sun, as now _

_ I stand in the moon, and call it good, _

_ The immaculate, the merciful good, _

_ Detached from us, from things as they are? _

_ Not to be part of the sun? To stand  _

_ Remote and call it merciful? _

_ The strings are cold on the blue guitar. _

_ Wallace Stevens, VII: 'The Man with the Blue Guitar.'  _

 

Detached elegant profound dreamy catastrophic correlated

adoration lost extreme brilliant bloody undone.

But mostly detached elegance.

That was how he felt when he awoke. As if by lifting his fingers he could snap the thread he was hanging from and drop into the abyss of separation from the world. 

Tiredness was laden heavy in his bones, and so he moved only a little at a time. Everything was silent. Behind him, fog rolled behind the huge, Victorian styled window. Nothing could shatter this mood, and nothing would.

But for the grey early morning light seeping through the window into the room, everything was dark. He could feel his long legs and arms, almost feel how pale they were, feel his torso moving, feel his curls resting on his shoulders, content to stay there, until he sat up in bed.

After feeling so weak, today he felt strong.

Therefore, today must be the day: it was the perfect day; there would be no other day.

His now strong feet walked across the oaken floors, bare toes curled, barely making a sound. Last night these floors had been the same floors that soaked up his porous tears as he lay against them.

He unlocked the door, the beautiful golden hued door; the same door his father had raged against so many times before. He stepped carefully through the house, by-stepping clutter he would normally clean up; let the maids do it, he would never do it again. Carpet welcomed his feet, and no sound reached his ears, no breath of wind seethed through his now mussed and crushed grey suit: when he was strong, he would wear whatever he liked. And today he would wear this, for today was the perfect day.

The front door was open, the fog clouding his steps as if in a dream. He stepped out onto the cold stone, and down the street, feeling nothing; no chill, no fire, no feelings, but the strength. 

The world was floating by millions of strings, pieces of thread attaching people; and yet, what if those strings were to be snapped?

The building he had chosen was empty, reminding him of a tomb, but for the guard snoring softly. He paused, looking down at the man. The last one he would ever see alive. Good luck to him; he would need it in a place such as this. 

Top floor, floor number thirty. He had heard those numbers in his lingering slumber many time before. He walked out into the cool air again. 

He would never be weak again.

Below, London was starting to bustle. People were awakening, stretching arms above their heads, turning to each other and saying ‘All right, mate?’, just as he used to do so with his friends, back when they cared. They were so far away, everyone he knew, little pieces of emotion roaming blindly. They’d never see the truth.He, Harry Styles, son of famous singer Des Styles, was disconnecting from the world after eighteen years of weakness.

As he fell, he felt his string snapping somewhere above him. Below him, a woman screamed, the sound echoing in his ears. 

O, Never to be weak again.

…

_‘Why would he do this? He always seemed so chipper to me, right?’_

_‘Well, it certainly wasn’t for attention, dear Li.’_

_‘Well, of course not! Bloody right it wasn’t. Look, there’s his dad on the telly. Waving, calm as you please. Fucking wanker.’_

_‘Liam….anger won’t help. We’ll back at Des Styles another day.’_

_‘I mean, his own son tries to kill himself, and he doesn’t even cancel his tour? What a bastard.’_

_‘He may well be a twat, but what we have to do is get Harry back on his feet, and into Uni without too much fuss about this. We’re his mates, his best mates, and we aren’t going to let him go so easily.’_

_‘We’re so lucky we get a second chance.’_

_‘God, Harry, why’d you have to go and throw yourself off a building? We’re here for you, always have been. And now more than ever. We’re getting you out of that house, and out of that mans life.’_

_‘Zayn, I don’t think he can hear us.’_

_‘Even if he is unconscious, I’m going to say it. Harry fucking Styles never try that again. You’re going to be just fine. Just, just fine. You’re coming to University with us weather you like it or not, and Li and I are gonna show you how to be happy again. Just wait. I promise you mate. With our wealth, our smarts, our beauty, you’re never going to have to contact that dick of a dad of yours bloody ever again.’_

_‘Yeah, we’ll adopt you!’_

_‘Quite right. Quite bloody right, love.’_

_‘Get you a nice boyfriend. Get you someone to love.’_

_‘Like we aren’t enough.’_

_‘Harry definitely doesn’t want to be third wheel for all of his life!’_

_‘Ouch, he could watch, I mean…I’m okay with a threesome!’_

_‘Oi!’_

_‘Hmm.’_

_‘The doctor definitely said he’d be all right, yeah?’_

_‘Sure, Li. Harrys gonna be just fine. And when he wakes up, he’s gonna get a royal welcome from us both.’_

_‘Sounds like a bloody good plan to me.’_

_‘And not just take him to Uni, Li, but he’ll room with us too. I’ve got a specific location picked out…just for the three of us….’_

_‘And he can wear what he wants and act how he wants and be connected to the world again.’_

_‘Never letting him go, right, Li?’_

_‘Never.’_

_‘Never.’_

_‘This is sappy.’_

_‘You’re right. Let’s go get a sandwich.’_

_‘You go, I’ll wait. We can’t leave him along again.’_

_‘All right.’_

_…_

_‘Do you think he’ll wake up soon, Zayn? It’s been two days.’_

_‘Maybe, if we sing to him…?’_

_‘Shall we sing Enya?’_

_‘Who can says where the road goes, where the day flows, only time?’_

_‘One, you’ve got a rubbish voice, and two, I thought it was the one from Lord of the Rings that we were singing!’_

_‘Right, right….’_

_‘May it be, an evening star, shines bright, on you…’_

_…_

And when he woke up, Zayn was sitting there in his huge black coat, looking like a worried mother hen and Liam, wearing a rumpled Nirvana t-shirt (which Harry was shocked to see, because _perfect_ Liam _never_ wore shit like that) and they grabbed him by the hands and told him everything that was going on.

And they didn’t mention his dad. Not once. Which he was really glad for.

Harry Styles was reading to come back into the world.


	2. One Year Later: The door is opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery, backstory, university, a bit of Niall, a hint of Louie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter:A. Vivaldi, Guitar Concerto in D, 2nd Mvt. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CrEMHDgN5dI
> 
> Also, here is a link for the song mentioned by Zayn: Louie, Louie by The Kingsmen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wx-8_GI4d2c

 

_Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself and east rushes west and west rushed down, no matter.’_

_—Wallace Stevens, ‘A Rabbit As the King of Ghosts’._

He had never slept with so many bodies around him.

Separated, of course, by plaster, insulation, carpet: but he’s on the third floor and that means he’s surrounded by everyone. He can hear soft guitar playing through the vents and below him a snore every five minutes. He knows the music is Liam, but without Zayn's beautiful voice to croon with him: the headmaster put him firmly in his own room despite Liam's cheeky: ‘There’s no reason to separate a married couple, mate!’ Therefore, Zayn: first floor, Harry: third floor, and Liam: fourth, right above Harry, within reach if he walks up the stairs and toward the door closest to the banister. 

 

It’s as if he’s being sandwiched between the best opposites of the world. For instance, Liam loves to play music (Harry thinks he’ll major in it) and his high energy and witty jokes and such terrible taste in clothes that Harry can’t help but smile when he sees him. And of course Zayn, who hates music but has a flawless voice, who keeps Li in check and doesn’t really know how to live it up, and wants to run thecampus fashion magazine.

 

And their completely in love with each other: Zayn worships Liam, but knows just when and how to reel him in and Li knows how to rile Zayn up for skipping classes and having fun while also managing to be his one and only, and they have both definitely earned their love extremely well. When Harry was contemplating his death, they were fighting: hard bitter words and smashed cups and dark, dark looks were traded between them.

 

But their his best mates and they managed to patch things throughout the year via Harry. Through exquisite cups of tea and just the right amount of partying (Liam introduced Harry to vodka and cigarettes, therefore preferring the latter he neverleaves his room without a pack and matches) they began to fall in love with each other. Harry has numerous photos of them, and they have numerous photos of themselves with him, with family members, lifting glasses and messy kisses, and tender looks exchanged. Harry’d begun to shoot photos with Liam's old Polaroid and then he never stopped throughout the year. 

 

And when the time came to apply for university, he tried to show them how much he loved them by backing up Zayn’s choices of the outfits he’d designed, and Liam’s hasty re-writing of songs at 4 AM. When he slipped his photos into a envelope along with a application, no one knew until the envelopes appeared for the three of them. The partying when they were accepted was tremendous.

 

The media was over them all, all three of them: questioning Zayn (whose father was a economic wonder in the Stock exchange) and Liam (because his dad ran the travel agency that was world famous). And they barely poked at Harry, congratulating him and asking about his father. No, he hadn’t called, no, he wasn’t disinheriting Harry,and no,Harry didn’t really care.He was fine with the bare minimal contact of the transaction of money. He’d gotten a new phone, and a new number, therefore his father could only contact him through his lawyer, and Harry wanted it that way. He would never be weak again, in a new sense of the word: he would be confident.

 

And so here he was, a year later, sitting on his red duvet in his spotless dorm room that he’d been given due to his wealth, and last night he’d glued a collage of sepia photos of Zayn, Liam and himself in various places in London looking like they’d all won the lottery. The calmness in his chest, well rounded before, deflated as he saw the clock: 7:50. He had breakfast to grab, clothes to dress in, two people to see…so far, and his first class was Advanced Photography!

 

Thanks to Zayn, his clothing was impeccable. Today was a casual suit of light blue (brand: Gucci) paired with a silk tie of grey and a white shirt with zero wrinkles. No hat, because Zayn’d said that hats were for winter and fall (never mind the fact that Zayn himself almost always wore a fedora, saying that he was the real Sky Masterson, not Marlon Brando) and it was only August.Shoes were loafers, white, and he knew he looked the spitting image of a rich snob: which he wasn’t. He was here to be alive and do photography.

 

Upstairs, the soft guitar had stopped, mostly due to the fact that Harry’s door was busting open and Liam shouting: ‘Day one of freedom!”

“Do you mind? People are sleeping.” Harry said, staring at Liam incredulously as he smoothed his hair down and adjusted his jacket, grabbing polaroid and backpack. Trust a backpack to ruin his image of a smooth criminal.

“No matter, no matter, eh?” Liam grinned, dressed obnoxiously in red jeans and a shirt that said ‘This is my first day at uni!’ in large sharpie letters.

“Well, if I was still sleeping…” Harry began but Liam just shrugged his broad shoulders and grabbed Harry by the shoulder, pulling him out the door.

…

The day began, much to his dismay, with Zayn spilling orange juice over his orange suit and having to go back and change, making him late for ‘Victorian Fashion’, despite Liam _and_ Harry

saying that ‘It’s orange juice, it blends with the suit!’ ‘You’ll smell even fresher, princess, now do go to class!’

His photography class was even better than he expected (lighting was the first topic of the three hour long class, which was his best subject) and so was French: Monsieur Francois (‘Franswizzle’, Liam had whispered to him before bursting into full laughter and taking out a cigar in full view of the teacher) spoke with a perfect accent, though Harry saw him later swearing in German at a couple of frightened looking seniors. 

And so it went, until dinner that night at the cafeteria when someone stood on the table and began to dance the Irish jig.

Granted, he was a good dancer, with pale blonde hair and flyaway eyes, his leather jacket flying up and down as he jumped, but when he started knocking over glasses and plates, he began to protest. From their seat in the corner, Zayn watched, and finally smiled, standing up and escorting the boy out of the mess hall with his cool, strong voice echoing in the ceiling that he’d pay for the mess, the girls looking on in _awe_ of this beautiful man. 

And when Harry entered their room that night, the boy was there, even more young looking up close. He was small, with delicate features, but with light blue eyes that light up at everything Harry said and a very good tolerence for keeping his drink down.His name was Niall Horan, and he was bloody brilliant! Liam and he hit it off super well, talking about music and computers (Niall was into programming, but Harry was surprised to find that he’d read Victor Hugos ‘Les Miserable’ in French, which showed he was well read) while Zayn watched footie lazily on the telly.He stayed till 10 o’clock, studying with them, and heleft the room saying he’d come back at the end of the week.

“Say, Can I bring me mate Louie?” he asked, pausing in the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, books held balanced in his other hand.

“Sure.” Harry said, while Zayn began to hum softly “Louie, Louie” by the Kingsmen (Zayn was such a sucker for old sixties music.)

 

Little did Harry know that this boy was going to fuck shit up, big time. 


	3. 3: A Significant Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hypothesis, and the fatal meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mentioned in this chapter is Vivaldi's 'Autumn: III Allegro.' Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWfPNCKxHQA 
> 
> It is also the song for this chapter because it really shows Harrys emotions through out this chapter, but especially when he meets Louis. Oops spoilers.

_The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,_

_Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,_

_And of ourselves and of our origins,_

_In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds._

_-Wallace Stevens, ‘Idea of An Order in Key West’._

 

Zayn has a hypothesis, which Liam is only too happy to carry out for him, bursting into Harry’s room early Friday morning and jumping on him as he ties his tie (white, today, with the more casual slacks and shirt, no jacket), running into him at full speed. 

 

“Hey, what in bloody hell Li?” Harry gasped, jumping away from him and shoving his prying hands aside.

“No time for your shenanigans, now, I’ve got to go photograph specific things on my scavenger list.” 

Turns out he was maybe a little wrong about the teacher: she had had an idea about Ansel Adams and Henri Cartier-Bresson were, but no idea who Yousuf Karsh was. Which, in turn, irked Harry so much he began ranting at her about him, which made her give the class a assignment about ‘taking photographs of a subject and therefore telling the story of the subject’, as Harry had so elegantly put it. . Nowhe simply had to get this done before Monday, and he knew he wouldn’t have time. 

 

“Zayn has a hypothesis!” Liam blurted, backing off and letting Harry tie his tie, but all the while zooming around the room, opening drawers and messing things up. 

Harry rolled his eyes: if he moved any faster, he’d be superhuman. A superhuman dressed in tie-dyed t-shirts and ripped leggings.

 

“What hypothesis?” He shot back, grabbing his backpack and dropping his books into it, sliding his phone into his pocket after texting Zayn back quickly that 1. your lover is in my room, yes and 2. are we still up for shooting your new model in that gorgeous dress you made?

 

“Well, a hypothesis that you’re going to fall in love with either Niall or Louis!” Liam grinned cheekily, scooping up Harry’s copy of _One Hundred Years of Solitude._

 

“Stop rummaging through my stuff.” Harry retorted, grabbing the well-worn copy. “And for a answer to that, I don’t even know Louis at all and all I know about Niall is he likes computers and dancing and alcohol, which doesn’t sound tempting at all, despite the flowery personality.”

 

“Humph. Maybe Zayn has to rework his hypothesis, but currently he’s stabbed his fingers thrice in the sewing machine so I won’t bring it up till later.” Liam hummed, and then pressed a sloppy kiss to Harry’s cheek, Harry stiffening as Liam rushed through the door and out, slamming it behind him. 

 

As he went through the day, he could feel that loss of contact in the bowels of his organs. Before he tried to remove himself from the world, he’d been very contact oriented, always leaning down to press a kiss to Liam’s temple or run his hands through Zayns hair.

He’d always had a touch to give. Now, though, his words seemed to be the only form of contact between them: not that it mattered, Zayn had Liam, et vice versa.

 

But Harry himself had no one to bestow his caresses on. 

And that thought pained him long throughout the day, even as his fingers danced over the shutter and polaroids spit themselves into his pockets, even as he sat in the late afternoon sun and replied to Monsieur Francois exsquisite wording about the catacombs ( _Brillianté_! He’d love a chance to photograph that!) and even as he entered Zayns room later that day for tea, he felt lonely even as they all three sat together and chatted, sipping Darjeeling from cups and gobbling the proffered scones Harry had picked up on the way back, while he smoked a Marlboro. 

 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t not fine with being lonely. Loneliness wasn’t the rubbish that Liam saw it as, but nor was it the solitary romantic anguish Zayn regarded it as. 

 

It was something that took the breath out of him, something that made him never want to speak again: it pulled all the human emotions out of him, and once they were gone, he felt that he could never put them back withinhimself without being caught up in a whirlwind of despair. So, it was never too good for him to be by himself, but at the same time, the numbing was sometimes all he needed.

 

His reverie was startled awake when the door was open roughly (for the second time today, _for fucks sake)_ and in came the obnoxious Niall, wearing ragged jeans and….was that Liam’s Nirvana t-shirt? as he pounced upon the small bottle of vodka with which they had flavored their tea.

 

“Ah, my love, me amour—“ Harry winced at the way the French sounded with his Irish brogue, “—ma petit belle, I have waited for you so long!” He held the bottle up in his hands and grinned at each one of them.

 

“Hello, Niall.” Zayn offered, standing, shaking his hand. 

 

“Yeah, hello, matey!” Liam said, grabbing his shoulder and grinning at him. Two peas in a pod, they were.

 

“All right, mates?” Niall asked, nodding at Harry, who really was too lazy to get up. “I brought me flatmate Louis with me…Zayn, you’ve already met him…Liam, Louis…And Louis, this here is Harry, renowned photographer.”

 

Harry felt that his heart was a violin and Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn' was being played on it, so violent and fast was the reaction when his eyes were met with the figure of a short man. 

He felt the blood draining from his face, he felt the ground tilting under him (was that the vodka?) and he felt his cigarette hanging limply in his own long fingers. All around him there was music, sad, sweet, desperate music as the man walked towards him and god, oh god. 

 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that is what they say, but Harry could almost feel his eyes dying from the light that was shining from the young man….this…Louis. 

 

He had a bit of stubble growing on his pale face, sprouting brown hair upon his upper lip and a beard down his chin, but it was well cared for and properly trimmed. His hair was short, yet reached the nape of his neck, and straight, the light brown reminded Harry of Bambi. His mouth was a soft pink, soft like the flaring of a rose. 

 

All of this unprepared Harry, it tossed him off kilter. He’d expected a immature boy who didn’t seem to hold himself with pride; this man seemed to hold himself with grace, walking towards him and holding a cup of tea _exactly the right way._ Harry was a sucker for men who could hold their tea cups right: never mind the fact that he was wearing a full length winter coat in the heat of August (Harry made a mental note to ask after that).He took a breath, as their eyes met. Such a blue, such a blue made of Mediterranean adventures and deep tropical nights where the mosquitos bit the skin of people as they fornicated in sand. Such was how his brain composed its first love sonnet to Louis Tomilson. 

 

“Hi, Harry, mate, how are you?” Louis stuck out a hand, and his voice was high, almost a alto, so if he sang it would truly be the voice of an angel. When Harry shook his hand he could feel how thin he was, the bones beneath his fingers near sobbing under Harrys larger hand. 

 

“Hi.” was all he could manage. But he stared as Louis began to regale them with tales of his childhood and his family, and his time with Niall…not personal, but casual. Harrys fingers were itching to photograph him, to take his hand again. And if Zayn noticed, he didn’t say anything, just patted Harrys shoulder. 

 

And when they left, waving goodbyes, they promised to come back tomorrow. And Louis’ eye met Harrys from across the room, and he gave a nod, a serious nod accompanied by the charm of someone magnificent and Harrys’ breath left him. 

 

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty paces from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time.” was the last thing Liam and Zayn heard him say before he too left the room. 

 

In other words, what had been dead a long time was stirring. His emotions were coming back to life. And it was all because of seeing someone and watching them for half a hour. Barely that. What the bloody fuck was wrong with him?


	4. Flowers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of something beautiful.

_At night, by the fire,_

_The colors of the bushes_

_And of the fallen leaves,_

_Repeating themselves,_

_Turned in the room,_

_Like the leaves themselves_

_Turning in the wind._

_-Wallace Stevens, ‘Domination ofBlack’._

 

The epitome of calm was the inhale of bitter smoke while leaning outside the dorm staring into the slightly cold, darkening autumn sky: but the dire opposite was the inside of Harry Styles brain. 

 

It was because of Niall, of course: Niall wouldn’t tell him _anything_ about his flatmate. Harry had inquired, politely at first, with indifference, but Niall had just said that he didn’t know to everything Harry asked, weather it was his major, favorite color, or weather he was gay or not. It made Harry feel cold, almost frigid, that this boy simply wasn’t interested in Louis. 

 

Because, to place it poetically, he was interested: he was extremely interested.

 

But what really ticked him off was that Louis was speedy: not even Zayn could catch him, Zayn with his long legs and charming demeanor, nor Liam who was all strength and brawn.Louis didn’t slow often, and when he was around(which wasn’t often), Zayn had commented that he sped everything up too, ’can you come to my math class with me and make everything disappear, huh, Louis?’ he’d joked and Louis had smiled at that and let out a laugh. 

 

But for Harry himself, Louis slowed everything down: his breath hitched, his legs would stop, everything but his heart would stop, while his heart beat frantically on the side of his ribs. And then he’d run into something, say a lamp post, and when he looked up, Louis was gone.

 

He wouldn’t slow down when Harry waved at him or smiled at him, said hello, or tried to compliment him, get a response. Was he always like this or was it nervous jitters? He’d tried asking Niall the other day, but to no avail: damn that wanker.

 

Zayn had pointed out about Niall the other day that he was helping Harry. He’d frowned, at Zayn, who was sitting with Liam on his lap in front of the common room fire, and he’d shrugged.

 

“Oh don’t be mad at the bloke. He’s helping you out, mate! He’s being the most subtle wingman ever seen to man. He’s telling you to get the answers for yourself. And Li and I, we’re happy to help kidnap the guy and tie him in your bedroom.”

 

But Harry had had different ideas about how he wanted to know things about Louis Tomilson.

 

So here he was, standing with Liam, who was holding the bleeding hearts in his left hand and Harry was holding the card too tightly in his right hand while he smoked, staring up at the stars to calm himself.

 

Now Harry Styles, before he disconnected from the world had always been the kind of guy who just swept right in and went for it. But somehow, when he had landed on the blackened cement, his brain had twisted and his demeanor when it came to dating was softer, if anything. He wanted to woo, to court, to whatever it was, but this was his intention with Louis Tomilson. 

 

Sighing, he dropped his cigarette into the grass and snubbed it out with his boot.He really hoped this would work.

 

It’d taken Harry two hours to find the perfect flower while Zayn groaned in the background about flowers giving him allergies. He’d browsed the internetuntil his eyes were droopy and his smile woozy and then he’d tried to find a quote that went along with the meaning of the Bleeding Hearts. They were said to meanmany things, such as expressing emotionally openly (which Harry thought he was), being deeply and passionately in love (was he?) and being too sensitive and emotional for the world around you (which was certainly Louis, why else would he move so quickly?). 

 

They moved up the stairs quickly, to the room where Niall could be heard shouting something in his Irish brogue (Harry rolled his eyes) and Liam put the flowers carefully against the door, Harry sliding the card to where the name Louis could be seen (written in Zayn’s beautiful penmanship).

 

“Oh god, please don’t.” was what Harry said next, because Liam was raising his fist to knock on the door. 

 

“Coming!” came Niall’s cheery voice, and it was then Harry fucking fled for his life, with Liam hot on his heels, whooping and laughing, shoving each other out of the way as they ran.

 

Had he ever felt so alive?

…

“Mates, I say, Louis’ has a secret admirer.” Niall said, the next day, as they sat outside, working on their notes from numerous lectures. 

 

“Oh yeah, I got some flowers and a note.” Louis said, his eyes shining, and Harry felt a blush rising to his cheeks.

 

“What’d the note say?” Liam asked, nudging Harry with his foot. 

 

“Well, they must have known I’m majoring in literature, because it was from one of my favorite books.”

 

Harry grinned to himself at that. No wonder his hunching suspicion about Louis being a literature major was right: he’d seen Louis going towards the library too many times in his big, floppy winter coat….despite the fact that it was only autumn and he needed a answer to that question. 

 

“Well, go on, what was it?” Zayn asked from where he lolled against Liam, Niall resting on his other shoulder. 

 

“Yeah, wasn’t it some shit by John Green?” Niall asked, who had professed his hate for John Green early on.

 

“No, it was Chekov. It wasn’t so much as a love quote as a quote that professed that the admirer would do anything, for me…” Louis sighed, his eyes dreamy. Harry tried not to grin too hard.

 

“So?” Niall asked, pouting at not being told already.

 

And when Harry heard the quote that he’d chosen on Louis’ lips, he swore that if he never heard something so beautiful again, well that would be alright.

 

“‘If you ever have need of my life, come and take it.’”


	5. 4: Roommates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :D

4

_“If it is right, it happens—the main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.”_

_John Steinbeck_

The more you taste, the more you feel. The more you observe, the more you see, and the more you learn, the more knowledge you attain. And so it was, as with a finely aged wine of sweet oaken flavor, that the observations continue. And Zayn continued to complain of hand cramps and asked numerous times if his perfect handwriting was being put to good use. 

Yet without complaint did he continue to write the quotes that Harry found: in old library books awash with golden light and dust, within the electronic database and gigabytes where harsh typos screamed across the screen hurting Harry’s gentle, delicate green eyes.

 

But it was worth it to see Louis racing through the fall leaves with a smile that blocked out even the rainiest, darkest moment. It was worth it to hide outside Louis’ room and see him pluck the cards from the ground and let his eyes linger on the words written on the cream colored, slghtly crumpled paper. Words such as…

 

_"Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” -Hamlet, William Shakespeare_

 

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_-Pablo Neruda, XVII: i do not love you_

 

_“I do love nothing in the world so well as you - is not that strange?”_

_—William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing_

 

And Harry would relish those moments, and hide them away in his brain while his camera clicking captured it in ink. He would try to capture all the many versatile looks upon his face when Louis was with Niall, or anyone else, he photographed it eagerly. And yes, creepy as it may seem, he would save them, putting them in his bedside table and his heart was so full he thought his chest would burst.

 

It was bad enough that he was fretting so about his appearance; a different suit every day, with little rings and accessories, and he’d taken to borrowing Zayns’ hair gel whenever things got bad with his Renaissance curls. But he knew that it was getting harder to keep his affection inside, and he was only dressing to make Louis notice him whenever he strayed from his speedy, wordy path.

 

Liam and Zayn were closer than ever, with Liam trying desperately the last few days before their long weekend break of three days to write better lyrics for his project, and Zayn trying to comfort him while his mouth was full of needles and pins and ended up almost stabbing poor Li. 

 

And it was Niall, paler than ever, who surprised them, when they were hunched around their favorite dying oak tree on campus green in the lush autumn afternoon, gobbling haddock and chips. Niall was pounding away on his phone, leaving greasy smears everywhere, and suddenly he choked, frowning, and spraying Liams borrowed jacket of pale silk green (Zayns attempt to make him dress better, but it only made it worse with the shitty Bon Jovi shirt underneath it) with bits of saliva clad fish. 

 

“Hey mates, guess what? Louis says he wants a new roommate! No hard feelings, o’course, but apparently he wants one!” 

 

Louis never spent much time with them as a group: he was always busy, rushing to write papers on Dostoyevsky and Wilde and he really only spent time with Niall. So whoever his flatmate would be now would be extremely lucky; that was what Harry thought as he bit into another piece of fish. 

 

“What d’you mean?” Liam asked, submitting to Zayn’s gentle hands wiping crumbs off the corner of his mouth fondly. Harry’s stomach clenched when he looked at them: why was that always happening now?

 

“I mea he says I’m too noisy and messy? How can someone who literally sits there and bangs on a keyboard all day and night be noisy; and I’m also clean!” Niall grumbled, grabbing a fry from Zayn, who shoved him.

 

“Probably because every time you code correctly or see something funny on the internet, you yell it out or start doing the Irish jig at 3 AM?” Harry replied, tone thick with sarcasm.

 

“Oh, brill. I didn’t think you that.” was all Niall replied. Harry frowned again. 

 

Zayn saw him tensing, and attempted, in his silken way, to make peace.

 

“Well, Harry’s quiet, and he doesn’t mind Louis…terribly, that is.” Zayn winked at Harry, who flushed a unflattering shade of red. “Why doesn’t he move in with Harry at the start of long weekend?”

 

“Okay with you, mate?” Liam asked, while Niall crowed excitedly (dear Lord, fuck him) and began fingering his phone again.

 

“Sure,” was all Harry could say: his head was a whirlwind. What about the notes? What if it didn’t smell good (not so, it always smelled like lilac)? What about the photos?

 

But despite these thoughts, he had never felt more thrilled in his life. What a interesting turn of events: all his working of the notes and flowers must have been noticed by some god of love. Surely Louis might notice how proper, polite, interesting, friendly he was. 

 

But at the same time, he fervently hoped Louis would say no. Because though he wanted to admire, he wondered if he would ever get anything done…or any sleep at all, with Mr. Louis Tomilson in the room. 

 


	6. Oh I love you, I love you, I love you, love, love LOUIS.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First talk! And cute Whatsapp stuff. Even though I've no idea how it works.

5

_‘Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, your arms full and your hair wet, I could not speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing, looking into the heart of the light.’_

_-T.S Eliot, ‘The Wasteland’._

 

The term ‘Hello, I must be going’ perfectly described Louis.

Zayn said that he was nervous, just figuring things out with Niall, and so what was between Harry and Louis (or what he thought there was) remained passive and dormant, like dark watercarrying funerary gondolas. 

 

Yet by some unspoken feeling, Harry started to smooth his own life better, put it in its place. The photographs remained in the bedside table, even though he longed to look at Louis, but they stayed only because he hoped, that, as a flower flourishes within the rain after it has been parched, so would his eyes bloom getting their fill of Louis. 

 

Despite this, he didn’t know Louis enough to imagine what it would be like: he only could imagine a ruffled bed head and pillow fights and grunted morning greetings in the wee hours of the AM. 

 

 

Therefore it was a tremendous surprise when there was a knock upon the solid wood on his door. It was about two days before their short break, but Harry had felt that his walls had been sparse too long, too devoid of light. 

 

And so, he was stringing deep, blue, LED lights that he’d gotten at a thrift store over the wall opposite his bed, which he hoped would be Louis. He thought they might compliment the tiny green lanterns he’d strung over his own bed. Never mind that his sheets and duvet, the only spot of color in the room, were red. Fuck color schemes.

 

Huffing a sigh, he climbed off his desk chair and running a hand through his loose brown curls, bare feet padding to the door over the silent, wood floors, and his long fingers latching onto the knob.

 

“Ah, Harry, mate.” was what greeted him, along with a mouth too pink for its own good, blue eyes that made heat pool in his navel. Ah, such a blue, such a delicious blue. 

 

“Louis Tomilson, hello.” Harry replied, trying to keep the note of surprise out of his voice, painfully aware that Louis’ stripped collard shirt of white was floating around him and showing his collarbones, a little, and his maroon jeans were tucked tight into his boots, a little too tight. 

 

Harry also thought he glimpsed the top of a tattoo under those pale, bitable collarbones, and thought that it was too much excitement for 5 O’clock. 

 

“How are you?” Louis inquired, his voice soft and mellow and pure gold, fuck.

 

“Fine, how are you…oh, where are my manners? Do you want to come in?” Harry stepped back hastily, banging the doorknob on his jutting hipbone.

 

“Looks tempting, but if I’m moving in, I’ll be seeing a lot of this room…and you, hopefully.” Louis winked at him, and Harry noticed just how handsome his fluttering eyelashes were.

“‘Cause Ireland says you’re quiet, seemingly attractive, and you won’t wake me up in the middle of the night with plans to cancel classes the next day by replacing all the homework on campus with pictures of Nicholas Cage.”Louis smirked.

 

“Did Niall do that?” Harry asked, and laughed, their laughter mingling in the air between them, Harry taking a unconscious step forwards. He could smell vanilla and a specific kind of shampoo, he couldn’t place what and it made his smile more realistic.

 

“So, um, here’s my Whatsapp aka my number and you text me the time and date when you want me to move in, yeah?” Louis handed him a piece of paper, obviously torn off from the corner of some poor literature classic with number scribbled on it…and a tiny, tiny heart surrounding it. 

 

“Um, yeah, sounds good.” Harry managed, knowing his cheeks were flushing a unattractive shade of red. First the winking, the flirting, the Whatsapp…it was too much, too fast, but it was all completely good. He liked it. He could get used to this.

 

“I’ll be seeing you, then. Get ready for about a hundred and fifty books to enter that nice, neat room.” Louis laughed again, his hand touching Harry’s for just a minute, and then he was gone, clattering down the stairwell. 

 

Harry touched his tingling hand and smiled to himself. Yes, he could really get used to this. 

 

…

Logging onto and making a Whatsapp was pretty easy, but he waited until the day before their break to finally let his trembling fingers message LTomilson, who had been online all day. Was he logged into it constantly? 

 

**HStyles: You can come up anytime you want to on either day 1, day 2, or day 3 of brief and savored freedom.**

 

**LTomilson: Oh hi harry.Brill. But really, what day and what time is good? xx**

 

**HStyles: Fine. Anytime between ten and midnight.**

 

**LTomilson: And the day?**

 

**HStyles: Tomorrow?**

 

**LTomilson: Oh, grand. I’m excited.**

 

**HStyles: I’ll try not to let you down.**

 

**LTomilson: After Ireland, how could you?**

 

**LTomilson: me m8s lying im gr8**

**HStyles: I know you are, Niall. He just likes me better. ;)**

 

**LTomilson: You know it.**

 

Did his heart ever beat so fast? Jesus.

 

**HStyles: Have a good night.**

 

**LTomilson: Leaving so soon?**

 

**HStyles: Work to do.**

 

**LTomilson: I’m such a slacker :/**

 

**HStyles: Sucks for you, wanker.**

 

**LTomilson: Til later then.**

 

**HStyles: Good night, Louis.**

 

**LTomilson: Good night, future roommate named Harold.**

 

**HStyles: It’s Harry!! :P**

 

**LTomilson: I still like Harold.**

 

_HStyles logged out, 10 PM._

 

**LTomilson: I might even like you.**

 

_LTomilson logged out, 2 AM._

 


	7. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The move in

_6._

  
_Shape without form, shade without colour,_  
_Paralysed force, gesture without motion;_  
_Those who have crossed_  
_With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom_  
_Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost_  
_Violent souls, but only_  
_As the hollow men_  
_The stuffed men._  
_-The Hollow Men, T.S Eliot_

When Harry awoke, it was to his phone pinging and the sunlight in his eyes. And it only took a few moments for his stomach to clench and him to recall: Oh God. Louis was coming today!

  
Such a leap out of bed had never been seen, and then he was struggling to brush his hair and teeth while making his bed at the same while bonking his head on the lanterns and tripping over his own two feet: left feet, if he was correct.

Harry Styles never moved quickly in the morning: it was all leisure and grace and soft, sophisticated movements. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of his room nearly cracking his head open every five minutes. And his phone was still pinging.

What time was it, anyway? Glancing at his phone, he saw 8:10 and underneath it, a stream of notifications from Whatsapp. He ignored them for the time being, opting instead to dress himself in a warm black sweater that showed off his collarbones and muscles without being too obvious and black jeans, and tying his hair up in a bun, he began to clean.

Ten o’clock found him eating the pastries Zayn had left outside his room for him and worrying about every possible piece of space in his room. Should he move his bed? Would Louis want to have bunk beds? Would Louis like living with him?

His phone pinged again, incessant, and he reached for it, opening Whatsapp. His eyes fell upon the message notification from the night before.

**LTomilson: I might even like you.**

_LTomilson logged out, 2 AM._

Well, if that wasn’t nerve racking, he didn’t know what was. He typed carefully, and excruciatingly slow.

**HStyles: Your future roomate says that it is now okay to move in?**

_LTomilson logged on, 10 AM_

**LTomilson: Good morning! And yeah, I’m ready. I’m just getting Niall to help me. We’ll be over in a few, is that okay?**

**LTomilson: Do you want any beverages: coffee? Tea?**

**HStyles: That’s very kind, but I’m alright.**

**LTomislon: And your room has a bed frame in the closet, right? Can you grab that out for me?**

**HStyles: No problem.**

**LTomilson: See you soon!!**

And then a message from a unknown number which turned out to be Niall with a emoji of a golden dog and a smily face. Harry scowled at it and turned his phone off, turning his attention to lugging the wooden frame out into the space and aligning it carefully with the wall.

When that was done, he looked at himself in the mirror one more time smoothing his bun and attempting to smile at himself.

“Well, Harry. Here goes nothing.”

The knock on his door was sharp, and he went to it, expecting to meet Louis’ smiling face.

What happened instead was Niall tumbling in at his feet, moaning, books flying out of his arms.

“Me arms. Me fuckin’ arms. Me arms.” was all he would say, clutching Harry’s leg in desperation. Harry rolled his eyes almost fondly at the Irish lads fluffy yellow hair and then tried to detach him from his leg without moving too much.

“I made him carry too many books, I guess?” came Louis’ sheepish voice as he entered, lugging two heavy looking bags that looked to be like they were from Gap.

Louis’ was wearing sweatpants, blue sweatpants and a hoodie that was too big on him and Harry could barely keep from saying that the color of such ordinary clothing items made his eyes look luminous and his skin even paler and the fringe of his hair was ever so perfect. He looked awake, and he looked happy.

“Here, allow me.” Harry said, grabbing the two bags from Louis and placing them on the bedframe (as best he could with Niall practically humping his leg from below.)

“Okay. Here we are, home sweet home. No more smelly socks and chips and computer typing away at four am.” Louis breathed in deeply, and Harry cringed, hoping Louis didn’t notice that he hadn’t done his laundry in a week or the constant cigarettes he smoked.

“Let go of my leg, Niall, and help unpack.” Harry said sternly, and the boy uncurled from him and jumped up.

“Can I make the bed? I make the bed very well.” He said, and went outside the room, pulling a clean looking mattress with a grey under sheet on it.

“Okay, but make it neat!” Louis opened a bag and threw a comforter (green) at him with the matching sheet and a pillow, a plain blue pillow. Why was Louis’ bed so topsy-turvy colorful? Harry’s own had matching sheet and duvet and pillow. Hmm. A nice change to the room, though.

“I like the LED lights.” was what Louis said first as Niall wrestled behind them with bedding.

His eyes were shining up at Harry, and Harry grinned back.

“Yeah? I thought they…um, matched your eyes.” He said, a little awkwardly.

Louis grinned and hipchecked him.

“Just like those laterns match your eyes. Let’s unpack and then we can go and join Liam and Zayn in boardgames.”

Harry could still feel the pale jut of bone in his side and he smiled to himself. They would be playing boardgames.

Louis had a lot of books. All sorts, too, and Harry admired that. They stacked them on the one bookshelf, Haryr taking his own textbooks and putting them in the bottom drawer of his desk, and they unpacked Louis’ clothes into the empty side of the closet (they were very diverse, and Harry thought they would all look great on him) and they finally organized his desk.

And then it was done and Harry had a roommate and his heart was bursting.

The afternoon was spent watching cartoons and horror movies and Harry wedged himself in between Niall and Louis’ during the scary parts just so he could feel Louis breathing beside him. Louis’ didn’t seem to mind the close contact, and his hand brushed Harry’s so often Harry had to look up and see if he was teasing him. Which he wasn’t.

Niall headed back first, and then Harry, claiming he was tired, awkwardly patting Zayn and Liam’s shoulders. He looked back at the door and said to Louis, who was now part of the cuddly couple,

“You come up whenever, mate.”

Louis’ eyes were shining and he winked at him.

“Of course.” was all he said, and Harry was sure everyone could hear his heart pound.

As he got ready for bed, he wondered, if by some miracle Niall had put jelly between the sheets so Louis would have to sleep with Harry That would’ve been wonderful.

But no such thing happened. Harry simply was propped up in his bed, reading on his phone, when Louis walked in, shedding his shirt and oh.

He walked in and shed his shirt. That was a first, and it made Harry perk up a little. But not to mention that Louis was mad fit, incredibly fit. And he was pale as a glass of milk, iridescent in the light, and Harry could only smile to himself. He would get to see this view every day.

“Hey.” Louis said, coming over to stand by the bed. Harry’s throat went dry.

“Hey yourself.” he said, smiling up at his roommate.

“Its almost eleven, you wanna sleep?”

“Not really.” Harry said, in all honesty.

“Me either. I’m gonna shower.”

And then he left the room, leaving Harry a little empty inside at loss of such a view. He curled up in his warm bed, sighing tiredly and tried to read again, but his eyes were closing…

The next thing he felt was wet dripping on his face.

“Mmph. Nnngh. Louis?” he asked, opening his eyes. Louis’ face was above him as his hair dripped droplets of water on him. Their faces were so close. Harry thought about kissing him and decided against it.

“Hey there cutie.” Louis smirked, taking the book from Harry’s hand and putting it on the floor. The next thing Harry knew, Louis was touching his face, wiping the water from his hair away.

“Don’t want you to catch cold from my hair.” Louis said, and smiled.

“Why would I?” Harry frowned. “Your the tiny one who could get a disease at any time.”

“Ouch.” Louis said, and slugged him hard in the arm. Harry jumped and slugged him right back.

“Okay, okay, we’re even, you wanker.” Louis laughed, a sound like silver bells, and his hand ghosted over Harry’s lips before he turned, climbing into his bed on the other side and switching off the light.

The LED lights glowed in the darkness and Harry was sure Louis was asleep until he spoke.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Do you have a boyfriend…or a girlfriend?”

“No, no boyfriend.”

“I’ve got a secret admirer in lieu of a boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“I know you know but I didn’t think you knew about me being single.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you haven’t made a move on me yet?”

“Oh, shut up Lou.” Harry said, and rolled over, his hair slithering across the pillow.

He heard Louis laugh to himself before he returned the pleasantry.

“Good night, Harold.”


	8. 7

_We do not pass through the same door twice,_

_or return to the door through which we did not pass._

 

_-T.S Eliot_

Living with Louis was like living with something soft and translucent, something that swept the room in a warm glow, something that burned and tossed at the edge of the bed and snuck into the corner but could’t hide. Living with Louis was living with lava, was living with the sand of the Sahara desert. He was always warm, so the window was usually always cracked. He was always neat, he was always consistent. But he was also a ghost.

 

Sometimes he would be there, sometimes he wouldn’t be when Harry dropped his heavy bag into his chair and spread his pictures and hung new ones up. He wouldn’t be there when the shadows deepened into lengthy pools of black on the ground, as Harry chewed his pencils and researched on the internet. He wouldn’t be there when Harry showered and dressed for bed, but he would be there when Harry was reading, coming in, dropping his bag on the ground and Harry would know he would’ve been at the library.

 

And he would be there in the morning, before Harry’s 8:30 lecture, the sun glowing over him as if he was a flower taking in photosynthesis. It was a beautiful sight, and if Harry photographed him, he wouldn’t need to know. And then he would shake his shoulder, and those beautiful blue eyes would open up and it was as if the fire was lit in Harry’s heart.

 

Their mornings were smiles, they were Louis introducing Harry to pirate metal and quotes of TS Eliot floating around the room. They were Harry brushing his hair, tying it in a bun some days, and dressing more in floating warm sweaters and jeans than his beautiful suits; what could he say? He felt overdressed when Louis walked around in freaking tank tops and jeans.

 

He himself, would be ice. Ice and frost and snow and deep blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He, himself, was the dripping moisture from the leaves of the strangler fig in Costa Rica. He, himself, would be the trickle of rain outside the window that late October afternoons. Even when he smoked, blowing it out the window as Louis slept the sleep of the dead, he could feel the wetness of his tears. He wasn’t sad, no…he was just lonely. 

 

He kept up with the love notes. He gave them to Niall, to Zayn, to Liam, to shove into Louis’ hand, and even gave him one out of his own pocket to make the suspicion lessen (certainly not to admire the soft smile on his face).

 

But Harry, shy Harry, couldn’t get up the courage to actually ask him out.

 

And it was November 1st that Louis messaged him on Whatsapp, asking him to come to the library at 11 o’clock that night, because he had something to tell him. 

 

**HStyles: Can do.**

 

**LTomilson: Great, because wanna talk to you, but this stupid paper on Appoline!**

 

**HStyles: I’ll be there. Want café?**

 

**LTomilson: Yes, please. x.**

 

And Harry’s pounding heart flushed at the small x. 


End file.
